Summer at the Manor
by Owlbutter
Summary: Slash between Harry and Draco. A holiday at the Malfoy Manor, where it may or may not be easy to find activities with which to occupy one's time.


**_Summer at the Manor_**

**Author**: Owlbutter  
**Rating**: T or PG-13 (No swearing, and no violence. Slight suggestion of 'occurrences', but nothing explicit.)  
**Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Word Count**: 5132  
**Disclaimer**: The characters and universe never have, and never will belong to me.  
**Summary**: A holiday at the Malfoy Manor, where it may or may not be easy to find activities with which to occupy one's time.

**Author's notes**: Thanks must go to the nice people at the hpbritglish community who helped me with some of my pedantic Brit-picking.

* * *

Draco goes to bed early and wakes early. He does not lie in bed long after opening his eyes, but neither does he fling back the covers. He sits up, and then stands carefully. His movements can only described as economical. 

The wardrobe in his bedroom is very neat, and Draco wastes no time searching through it. He always wears full wizarding robes. In the oppressive thickness of the summer air he casts cooling charms as his fingers run deftly over the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons at his cuffs.

x x x

Nearly all of Draco's meals are eaten at one end of an enormous table, in the second-largest dining hall. If anything is dropped the sound echoes over the panelling and cornices, and swirls around the chandelier.

Due to this he can hear the clatter and bustle of the house elves in the distant kitchen. They always set a full, formal table, but it has been many years since Draco has had any trouble remembering what the third fork is for. The table is so polished Draco can see his face in it.

He watches his mahogany reflection reach for another bread roll, and the dust motes dancing in the light that can never seem to be cleaned away, and ignores all the other empty seats.

x x x

Not often does Draco see Narcissa. She never comes to his side of the Manor, and he seldom goes to hers. Both are generally satisfied when left to their own devices, as the only choice of company available to them is the other.

Whenever they happen to meet in fairly neutral territory she very politely asks him what he has been doing, and he very politely answers. There is a strange detachment to their exchanges, which are hardly long enough for them to feel awkward.

Occasionally they feel obliged to make contact. He tells a house elf to relay his intentions, or is informed by one himself of her behest, and goes to her quarters to find her waiting patiently.

They eat a meal together, make stilted small talk, and part.

x x x

While outdoors Draco avoids Narcissa's side of the gardens as much as he does her rooms. He instead takes his broom to his Quidditch pitch on a regular basis. Dressed in full uniform he chases his own Snitch, dodges his own Bludgers, times himself constantly. He spends hours diving sleekly, spinning tightly, and reading the silver dials of a watch that glitters against the soft dark leather on his palm.

When he drifts down to land for the final time he has house elves waiting in attendance. They have towels to mop his sweaty brow, and an old, velvet lined box filled with gauze and potions and instruments Draco has learnt to use since his first scraped knee. There is also a tall, full glass that slides with condensation when he lifts it from the tray, with ice cubes that clink against the sides satisfyingly as he swirls it.

On the way to clean up properly Draco slips through the back door into the kitchen. After all the time spent under intense sunlight the cool, blue-tinged shade is a shock, and he must stop for a long moment, blinking, to let his eyes adjust to the dark.

x x x

The hedge maze is kept clipped, and healthy, although Draco memorised how to get through it a long time ago. He sees it every time he leaves the Manor, feigning importance and attempting to look formidable, mysterious.

Draco knows the truth behind the show, and is not intimidated.

There is a stretch of flat lawn, close to the ivy that climbs along a trellis up the walls, which would be perfect for wizarding croquet.

Draco knows this because that was the original purpose of the lawn.

He last remembers it being played there at a dinner party, when there was music rolling in waves down from a balcony, interspersed with the clinking of glasses. A dinner party at which Draco weaved between the legs of his parents' friends as the first stars began to show in the dusky blue sky, and the air just started to grow crisp.

Draco lets the old croquet set lie in the shed, but the house elves ensure that it never gathers dust.

x x x

There are relatively few rooms that Draco needs or wants to use. The majority are left alone, and he does not enquire often about their upkeep to the house elves.

If there is something that needs finding he walks through the disused corridors with no consequence, but he already knows everything that sits behind every closed door, and any interest he had in them vanished long ago.

x x x

On the hottest days the dungeons are the most comfortable place to be in the Manor. Even at times when Draco sees waves rising from the parched ground he knows the dungeon air is damp, its stonework cool to the touch and the shade soothing.

Draco finds he is always sufficiently comfortable to stay in his own rooms. Or if not, he makes it so.

x x x

Deep in the thick of the trees that edge the Manor there is a place where a stream spills into a small, dark pool. Even in the viscous, cloying heat of the midday sun it is pleasantly cool and damp. There are sometimes frogs there; small, slippery ones that Draco used to try and catch with a charmed net and tiny, grubby hands.

On rare occasions Draco goes there to swim. He takes off his clothes and piles them on the leaf litter under a great old, knobbly lime, and lets the mud sink between his toes at the water's edge. He always eases himself in, until his feet touch the smooth, slimy stones at the bottom.

When he floats in the middle of the pool on his back, nothing but eyes and nose and lips and a swirl of hair, he hears nothing but a rough eddy and splash, and he sees only a vault of black leaves. At certain times of the day a handful of piercing rays break through, and pinprick his dappled skin. He shuts his eyes, and lets it remind him of the warmth waiting for him. It makes the cold that much more refreshing.

Once, when he was leaning back into a crook of dangling roots in a silent, out-of-the-way corner, he witnessed a unicorn, stepping its cautious way down to take a drink. It was dignified, and elegant, and alert, and Draco did not breathe or make a movement until it had gone.

x x x

Draco sits at his desk often, in the morning, and afternoon, and night. There is a stack of parchment, and a bottle of ink, and a handful of quills handy, and all manner of useful things in the smattering of tiny drawers with polished brass handles.

He writes letters, or reads, or sits. His knees fit neatly under the alcove, his arms are the perfect length for the armrests, and he never squirms because the leather is uncomfortable. He spends a long time making sure everything is neat and tidy.

It helps to pass the time.

x x x

Before changing in the early morning light Draco enters the room adjoining his, where the house elves have a bath drawn. He sits his wand next to his other things on a small stool. The flagstones underfoot are nearly always cool to the touch, but if the air is crackling he sometimes charms the water, making it lukewarm. After sinking in enough to make his hair damp he sets about cleaning himself methodically.

He is never in long enough for his fingers to wrinkle, and he never spills water around the claw feet as he leaves.

x x x

Several house elves attend to Draco, and he makes sure they are always at hand. Often he is in the kitchen explaining to them what needs to be done. On occasion this takes longer than the task itself. His voice is quiet, and he listens carefully to their responses as they work around him, making him sit, offering him refreshments, subtly enquiring after him. He sits and he drinks and he listens, with the pantry doors opening and closing behind him. The back door is open so the breeze comes through, and the distant rustle of leaves is just audible.

The house elves have a way of filling time, and he frequently stays until they remind him that dinner is about to be served.

x x x

Portraits of Draco's relatives, and previous occupants of the Manor, line the walls.

Draco knows who they all are, has already been taught about them extensively. He does not speak to them as he passes by, and they are mostly stiff and seldom move. Like the heat, they seem to be bogged down, heavy, sleepy. Years of inaction have caused most of their dignified, composed life to succumb to lethargy, and very few of them wake up enough to glare at Draco in condescending distain.

x x x

Draco has not visited the nearby village in many, many years. The house elves take care of most things for him, and there is no need. There are Muggles there, Muggles that go about their daily business, that know nothing about the other wizards living under their noses.

Muggles that Draco knows nothing about.

When Draco was younger, he remembers visiting the place with Lucius. Finding little interest in old men with long robes, and haggling over a dusty counter, he went wandering. Not very far away he found strange carriages, and strange clothing, and a strange, friendly woman who gave him a small cone full of ice cream as he stood watching her and her children. It was pink, and cold, and started melting and dripping immediately.

He stared at it as he made his way back to the dusty counter, where Lucius saw him, and scolded him, and said he should never do something so dangerous. Draco had thought it was logical that Muggle food worked in much the same way as wizarding, and said so, but Lucius said that if there was one thing Muggles were completely lacking it was logic, and that Draco should know better than to trust a Muggle woman with her poison.

Lucius threw away the ice cream, and said Draco was lucky he hadn't been fool enough to eat it.

Draco knows nothing about Muggle food and Muggle transport and Muggle customs, and if there is one think he is not, it is a fool. He never visits the village.

x x x

After three days Draco breaks, and writes to Harry begging him (in a dignified way) to come and stay at the Manor for the first half of the holidays.

X X X X X

Harry and Draco go to sleep late and wake late. On mornings when Draco is the first up he can roll over and see Harry still snoozing into the pillow. The room is mostly in the shade of the Manor.

During the night Harry has flung his arms unconsciously any which way, and one leg is hitched over the sheets. He can see Harry's hair riffle occasionally, and he can feel the air brushing through his own from the open window.

Draco's skin is still pleasantly cool, and he scoots closer to where Harry's skin is still pleasantly warm, and lies breathing quietly until he wakes.

x x x

At most mealtimes, or whenever they feel particularly compelled, Harry and Draco eat in the kitchen. It is convenient for them, and comfortable.

It is much smaller than the dining room.

Somehow they manage to fill each corner with a cheerful racket, from the low clack of the cutlery, the scrape of chairs, stifled yawns and teary laughter. Harry manages to find his way around quickly, and he is always up getting himself a clean spoon or looking for a jar of preserves or mopping a spill.

The door to the grounds is always left open, and the place becomes something of a thoroughfare. There is a bowl of apples and plums and bananas strategically placed on a bench nearby, waiting to be grabbed for a quick snack while passing through.

In the mornings, with the play of light and movement peeking through that door, they rarely stay in the kitchen for long.

x x x

Harry has his broom with him, and they go to the Quidditch pitch together nearly as much as Draco used to go on his own. Depending on how they feel they will engage in cheerful (often heated) competition, or just fly lazily and easily for the sake of flying. Harry likes to look around at the grounds below, mapping out the trees and land and buildings, and then grin over at Draco, taking it all in. Draco likes to watch him do it.

They play, and argue, and laugh breathlessly.

After landing for the last time on the empty pitch, they lug the equipment away. Draco then turns to Harry, whose face is covered in a thin sheen and whose eyes show how perilously close to delighted laughter he is.

He makes the two of them visit the pool to clean off and cool down.

x x x

It is much rowdier under the trees with Harry there. He splashes around, chatting away to Draco, making the most of the swim. He loves getting Draco to time him holding his breath, or trying to get them to compete. Draco always remembers the last time he gave, because he knows Harry does, and adds a few seconds each count. It makes Harry's face light up, and induces him to press a cold, damp kiss to Draco's cheek.

Draco never sees a frog when they are in the water together, and never tells Harry about the unicorn.

Without looking, Draco knows Harry has left his shirt or some other item carelessly in the mud right by the edge of the pool. Once Harry surfaces, and is told his new time, he will dunk said item to clean it, and will go back to the Manor even more sopping than usual.

He stares meanwhile at the mass of ripples nearby, and the trail of bubbles swirling from it.

Draco loses count somewhere after ten, but he does not think it matters, as he can feel Harry's fingers running up his calf.

x x x

Any injuries either of them sustains are taken care of later, on top of their bed, where they can be seen to properly. Waking up the next morning Draco can still smell balm on the sheets, and there is a grazed elbow digging into his stomach.

x x x

When Harry finds the croquet set one day he carries it out of its shed and dumps it on the lawn, then finds Draco to ask him about it. Draco gives up after ten minutes of explaining, and decides to set up a practical demonstration of its intricacies. Harry finds everything incredibly complex, and confusing, and try as he might he can't seem to hold the mallet correctly.

He comes to the conclusion that wizarding croquet, unlike the Muggle variant, is simply illogical.

Eventually he gets to the stage where he can play most of a game, albeit terribly. Draco has to help him now and then, curling around him to shift Harry's hands into the proper position and guide his aim. Stepping back after a quick nuzzle, he watches Harry's swing.

Draco clenches his sides as he howls with laughter. He collapses when his knees can no longer hold up his shaking, spasming torso, and he can't breathe enough to speak.

After a few seconds he infects Harry, who tosses his mallet down and flops beside him, snickering. Spent but for a sporadic chuckle, they lie flat on the lawn, and try to wipe the tears from their eyes.

x x x

The first time Harry sees the maze his heart clenches. When they walk near it he doesn't look directly, but is slightly tense, and frowns just a bit, and puts his hands in his pockets. Draco sees, but doesn't say anything.

Now, when Harry is on his back on the lawn, and he can hear Draco panting beside him, and there is still the memory of a smile on his face, he looks. This time, he does not see any Tournaments. He remembers when he was young, being dragged along with the Dursleys to an amusement park. There was a maze, but they had to pay to enter, so Harry stayed in the airless car, playing with the seatbelt and roasting and wishing as hard as he could to be able to go too.

Harry pulls Draco to his feet, and walks him to the entrance, and they step in. The hedge feels tall and menacing and muffling. As they come to forks, and dead ends, Harry trails one hand along the wall, rattling the leaves. His other hand holds Draco's, and clenches more and more irrationally as they go. There is no indication he is aware of the sweat licking his temple; every pore is focused on his objective.

As time passes, and they keep walking, a sense of unspoken alarm seems to grow. Draco can feel it, but it does not spring from their enclosure. It wells directly from Harry, rolls from him in waves.

Draco knows when Harry takes wrong turns, but doesn't say anything. When they come out into the open air again, blinking, Harry lightens impossibly, and wraps Draco in a hug, and knows he understands.

x x x

While Draco is familiar with his share of the Manor, Harry is not, and loves exploring it. Rather than having a tour he gets Draco to accompany him as he meanders through corridors, poking his head through doorways and getting hopelessly disorientated.

When asked, Draco will explain the significance of an item, or who a pair of slippers belonged to, or which direction they are facing. There are plenty of magical objects Harry has never seen before, and he is curious about what they do. Draco is happy to inform him, and stop him from hurting himself by touching the wrong item.

Draco never keeps Harry out of any area, but Harry sometimes feels that there are things missing, or rather, things that have been removed. Some shelves are sparse, and a few rooms, deep in the bones of the Manor, are completely bare.

Harry does not think the rooms yearn for their absent contents, but that the lack of presence is felt nonetheless, at times deafeningly.

He accepts this.

x x x

If so inclined, or when his curiosity has been piqued, Harry has a habit of prodding the portraits into conversation. Draco tells him the dozing figure in question's name, and how they are related in some obscure way to him, and Harry greets them politely.

Once woken, most of the portraits are immeasurably haughty. While their upbringing prevents them from giving their explicit opinion of Harry, they make up for it with insinuation and snide remarks that are thankfully too out-of-date for Harry to fully grasp. Draco, who is well versed in Old and Middle English, is glad Harry is not.

The paintings are baking so much indoors that their surfaces are tacky; it could be imagined that their oils would soon begin smearing and dribbling, although they remain flawlessly solid. Draco might assume this is the reason for the icy attitude, but he knows they are just malicious and self-serving by nature, and nothing Harry does can change that.

Although the portraits are not pleased with the intrusion, they become more active. They wander from frame to frame discussing the interloper, and the walls of the Manor are more alive than they have been in years.

x x x

Harry is uncomfortable with the constant presence of the house elves. It is disconcerting to kiss someone, knowing there are large, bulbous eyes staring from some out-of-the-way corner.

He becomes impossibly shy, and confines some of their activities strictly to the bedroom.

Gradually Draco sends most of them to join those attending Narcissa. He knows he has far too many, anyway. A few jobs are still done surreptitiously, when Harry and Draco are not around. Their bed is always crisply made after they leave, their clothing cleaned, the kitchen kept well stocked. Draco always knows where to find one if anything is needed, but for the most part they are left alone.

Harry eventually comes out of his shell again, and they begin to enjoy the Manor extensively.

x x x

When not eating indoors, Harry and Draco like to have picnics. Draco procures an old basket from somewhere in one of the cupboards, and they have great fun wandering around, choosing a spot.

Finally deciding, they lay the crocheted blanket down, grass blades poking through the holes. Then they lounge, blinking heavily against the glare and temperate breeze, munching on sandwiches and cold chicken, and wondering whether they have the energy to stretch for the flask of pumpkin juice.

Eventually one of them does, reaching languidly across the other and pouring a cup. Moving to roll back, they usually think better of it, and spread themselves like butter over the warm body; tickling their throat with condensation as they dangle the glass in their fingers.

Which leads to kissing, and more kissing, and peeling away of layers of clothing. Draco feels the sun on his bare skin and onto his closed eyelids and the soft blanket underneath as he runs fingers down the slick trails on Harry's back, and Harry makes delicious noises into the curve of Draco's neck.

Afterwards, Draco can feel every sound Harry makes reverberating through his lungs and the sweat sliding between their chests. The slow, easy thrumming draws him into a lazy snooze.

When they wake, hours later, it is a struggle for them to sluggishly dress and pack everything away, and walk back through the long shadows of the afternoon. After a quick, icy drink, they head upstairs to the bathroom to assess the damage.

Harry always finds it hilarious that Draco holds him in the exact same way every time, leaving two stripes across his back that stay pale while the rest of his skin gets darker. Draco scowls at his arms, and a vicious red reflection glares back at him when he looks at the mirror.

Harry grabs the balm, lays Draco on the bed, and runs soothing wetness apologetically up his forearms. And his shoulders, and neck, and chest, and thighs.

Eventually Draco is covered in balm, even in areas where he definitely wasn't sunburnt.

x x x

Hedwig brings Harry letters. Wherever they are, in the Manor or on the grounds, Harry finds her a little treat; as in either his pockets or Draco's there is likely to be a snack, or some leftovers from their last meal, or some of the sweets they have been saving in their trunks. Harry then always stops and reads the letter aloud to Draco, hand running over the smooth feathers of Hedwig's back.

Later on, when it is dark, Draco browses the books on his shelves, while Harry lies on his stomach at the foot of the bed, writing his replies. Draco doesn't read all the letters before they are sent out, but he knows Harry signs every one with 'love from Harry and Draco'.

Making his selection, Draco climbs into bed. He reads, until Harry finishes with a rustle of paper and crawls up to kiss him; fingers leave inky smudges across Draco's jaw, then lips try to clean them off.

x x x

In the long, heavy hours of the afternoon Harry sits at Draco's desk, back against one armrest with his legs flung over the other; and Draco sits on his bed, lounging back against the pillows, and they talk. About spells, Quidditch, their friends, each other. It is incredibly relaxing.

Draco notices when Harry gets tired because he stops trying to peel his clammy shirt from the upholstery, and rests his cheek on one arm stretched across the chair back, and just watches him. Draco notices when a tuft of Harry's hair flutters in the breeze, because usually at that time of day it is all plastered down on his scalp.

Very rarely the wind gusts too much, and in a mad flurry the parchment on the desk is tossed in the air and swept around the room, and there is a mad rush of leaping and clutching to prevent them flying outside. In the relative calm afterwards Harry, panting heavily, grinning tiredly, with a half-finished letter to Ron scrunched in his fist, leans into Draco's side and rests his damp forehead on Draco's shoulder.

Draco knows where all of Lucius' old magical paperweights are kept, but never goes to get them.

x x x

At night, Harry and Draco sleep with the doors to Draco's small balcony open. In fact, the doors are hardly ever closed, as after eleven in the morning the air can be stifling.

From their bed they can hear the crickets chirping from far away, and feel the intermittent breath of night air. They ward to prevent mosquitoes, and from the foot of the bed through the hangings Harry can see stars above the horizon.

Some nights Draco leaves his bathroom to find all the candles snuffed out, and Harry snuggled in a quilt outside, looking at the sky. If he feels so inclined, he sits pointing out the constellations until Harry's head is drooping and then leads him unresisting to bed.

If not, he lays close, and lets Harry wrap them both up until dawn.

x x x

They have long baths together, whenever convenient. Harry is not used to being able to charm the water temperature, and he is fascinated by it. Draco likes to soak, and let his legs tangle with Harry's, and kiss Harry, and let the water slosh over the sides.

Which pools on the floor, and always causes Harry to wobble and nearly slip when they finally get out.

Sometimes Harry gets out of bed early in the morning, and comes padding back to the bed dripping and grinning while Draco is still asleep, to try and coax him awake.

Harry usually wants Draco to join him in the bathtub, and Draco usually does.

Draco absolutely loves the feel of the sheets around him at night, when he is clean and warm and slightly damp. From the glint in Harry's eyes, he can tell Harry does too, and that they will both need another bath in the morning.

x x x

Harry wants to see the village when he hears about it, and convinces Draco to visit. They walk there one morning, reaching the small wizarding part first. There is a small exchange jutting out on a corner, needed by the families who use some of the Muggle shops.

Harry swaps several Galleons for pounds, while Draco renews his memory of the area. There are some buildings that been constructed recently, but they are still wizarding, and familiar to him.

As they continue wandering about, Harry notices Draco looking warily at the money in his hand. He makes a flippant comment, inadvertently explaining the Muggle notation, and sees Draco relax slightly. They reach the first Muggle store, and he tenses again, before tentatively following Harry in.

For the rest of the visit Harry rambles constantly about all things Muggle, under the guise of making conversation.

Draco watches Harry chatter out of the corner of his eye, tightens his grip on Harry's hand, and licks the ice lolly Harry bought him.

x x x

Muggle clothing is admittedly more comfortable than Draco's, and he takes to wearing Harry's. It is easy to wake up in the morning, pick up a discarded shirt, and slip it on. The material is soft and worn, and Draco likes the way it smells.

Harry must wear his things as well, and the house elf doing the laundry has to work twice as hard with them sharing. In the end Harry, sick of the constant lack of attire, goes to the village himself, to buy Draco his own shirts. They are clean and crisp and fit him a lot better anyway.

For some reason, Draco still prefers Harry's, so Harry takes to wearing Draco's. Before long, they forget whose is whose.

x x x

One bright, warm morning Draco leaves Harry to his own devices searching through a deserted wing, puts on his best robes, and goes to have breakfast with Narcissa.

Her parlour is on the bottom floor, close to the entranceway. It is a long room, with a high stud, and many tall, lace-trimmed windows that look out at the front of the Manor. The walls are white, the furnishings soft and delicate and particularly feminine. When Draco enters there is only a sliver of sunlight along the carpet, and the steam from the teapot in front of Narcissa is distinct as it curls through the air. He sits in a chair next to her.

She asks him if he has been keeping himself amused, looking at him over the china as she takes a sip of tea. His robes begin to itch. He busies himself with his own cup, and responds. He tells her about Quidditch, and reading, and being outdoors. He never mentions Harry, and wonders if she knows that he is upstairs and on the grounds and in his bed every night.

If so, she says nothing about it to him. Eating her own breakfast slowly, she informs him of correspondence she has had with various acquaintances, forever cool and composed. She does not take her eyes off him throughout.

Draco leans forward towards his plate, spreading honey on his crumpet, and hopes she doesn't notice the mark Harry made on his neck the previous evening.

x x x

On the occasions when Harry and Draco do not eat in the kitchen or outside, they have their own separate table set up in the dining room. It sits against the wall, large enough for two, small enough to be intimate. Close to the door leading to the kitchen, they can sit and have a proper, quiet meal, with napkins and staring at each other past the candelabra.

One morning, carefully and contentedly spooning sugar onto his porridge, Harry asks how Draco could ever say he was bored here. Draco shrugs, and laughs. The sound echoes around, making Harry feel warm and strangely safe.

Later, when Draco has gone to look for a bottle of cream, Harry glances around the vast hall. He settles his gaze on the main table, with its many chairs still seated around it. Without the house elves, a thin layer of dust has settled on the rich, dark surface. It needs cleaning, and will be, once Harry leaves and Draco resumes his daily routine again.

x x x

Harry thinks he understands, and sends an owl to Mr and Mrs Weasley, begging them to let Draco come to the Burrow with them for the last half of the holidays.

The End

* * *


End file.
